


Burn

by tristesses



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: AU, F/M, Femdom, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of all the people to visit him in Arkham, the Joker never expected her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 7/29/2008.

The only problem with this place, this fantastic hotel of the criminally insane, this lounge of the damned, was how very – very – few things there were to do. Right now he’d settle for playing doctor with his pretty therapist, or maybe a game of find-the-syringe with one of those nurse bitches who came on the hour with fresh needles full of drugs meant to make him _relax_ , meant to make him _sane_ , but to him all they did was drive him absolutely fucking _crazy_. Strapped in a straitjacket was no way to live a life!

But now – what was that? Yelling doctors, frantic nurses, sleazy lawyers, ahoy! Yes, they’re shouting up a storm, all about him, wonderful what emotions a little _chaos_ can cause, and underneath their whines is a voice. A very. Quiet. Voice. Does he recognize it? Yes, yes he does.

“Harvey’s girl,” he singsongs. “Oh how I wish that I had Harvey’s girl!”

The ruckus outside quiets somewhat, then

“Fine,” says another voice, bored and female, his good doctor Quinzel. “Talk to him. See if you can make any sense of him.”

The locks snap and unhinge, the door creaks, and there she is, oh Harvey’s girl, glowering at him like he’s her least favorite person on the earth. Which he supposes he is. After all, he did help to fry her boyfriend. And her, by the looks of it!

“Where can I find a woman like that?” he finishes, and clacks his teeth at her, slurring his words like he’s drugged (and they think he is). “Hello…Maggie. Or is it…Jennifer. All these women around me, like my fine, uh, _doctor_ , it’s a wonder I can remember anything!”

“I want him out of his restraints,” she says coolly, and when Quinzel makes a noise of protest, she adds, “If he’s sedated like you say he is, he won’t be a problem.”

“It’s against hospital rules,” Quinzel says tersely.

“Does it look like I care right now?” MaggieJennifer(Rachel?) says. And no, it doesn’t! All those pretty _scars_ all over her, skin grafts and burn marks and it looks like some thick ropy ones on her upper arms – haha, dealing with her, ah, _accident_ must have been tough, by the looks of things.

Quinzel looks at her, a nice hard look, then shrugs and says, “It’s your money.”

“No,” she says, “it’s Bruce Wayne’s.”

While the good doctor unbuckles his straitjacket – Joker makes sure to lie all nice and limp, so she won’t guess he’s been, uh, giving the nurses some of their own medicine instead of taking it himself – the woman stands at the doorway and watches him. She doesn’t look all nice and caring, and he’ll bet she isn’t assistant DA anymore. Mental breakdowns do that to people, make ‘em lose their jobs. He should know!

“There,” says Quinzel, when she’s all nice and done. She stands and looks at the woman, eye to eye. “An hour, no more. And thank you for your very generous contribution to this hospital.”

A crooked smirk steals across that gorgeously burned face. “You’re welcome, Doctor.”

She nearly slams the door, which is louder than Joker’s used to now (he relishes the  
 _bang_ ), and turns to face him, hands on hips.  
“You can stop with that act now, I know you’re not drugged,” she says. “Remember me?”

“How can I forget such… _beauty?_ It’s all that keeps me sane.”

“It’s obviously working well,” she says dryly, and walks towards him, and Quinzel in all her medical-scrubbish glory can’t compare to a woman (burn victim or not) dressed in tight pants and high heels coming toward him like _that_. Oooh, yeah.

“You’re staring,” she tells him, and does she sound amused? Yes, she does. How _funny_. It’s like she thinks she’s in control here.

“I can’t help it, it’s not like they send _hook_ -ers to my room at night – ” he starts, but she _smacks him in the face_ and _grabs it_ , holding his chin in her hand and staring at his scars.

“Funny,” she says, and he struggles, flailing his arms and fuck this place for keeping him locked up all the time, almost two years without exercise (just occasional starvation, when the doctors aren’t pleased with him) and how’s he supposed to fight her off now?

“Listen to me,” she orders, and shoves him against the wall. “Are you listening?”

He sucks on his cheeks petulantly and replies, “Yes, Nurse Rachel.”

He’s mocking her clearly, it has to be obvious but she just smiles and continues.

“Funny how I’ve never seen you without the makeup,” and he’s worrying his lower lip now, licking away the trickles of saliva that tend to drip from his scars when he’s not paying attention, “even with the scars, you seem much more human.”

“Funny, you don’t,” he mutters, and her eyes darken, and no, she couldn’t do that, pretty pristine Rachel never hurt anyone in her life but she does, she punches him in the gut and he buckles over. She steps back, and when he straightens up he leans against the wall and starts to giggle.

“Oooh, _Rachel_ ,” he says between gigglesnorts, “how un-ex-pect-ed that was of you. It’s been… _years_ since someone’s hit me like that.” The last person was Batsy, o’course, but he’s not about to tell _her_ that.

“I hated you for nearly a year,” she tells him, hectic spots of color burning high on her cheeks like clown makeup, and he thinks she isn’t willing to admit to herself how much she _enjoyed_ that punch. “Through all the surgeries – Harvey’s funeral – watching your trial on television – god, I hated you.”

“The ee dee implies past tense,” he says, rocking back and forth slightly, because any input other than the state-mandated kind is good input, and input in the form of beatings is one he relishes and can’t wait to have.

“It is,” she says. “Then it occurred to me that it wasn’t hate I felt. It was resentment. Resentment because you took away things I valued, things I loved.”

“Ss _spare_ me the sentiments and bring on the bruises,” he snaps, “I don’t want to _hear_ your sob story.”

“Too bad,” and from somewhere in that outfit comes a little snub-nosed revolver, gleaming at him and watching with its one dark eye. “You’re going to.”

“Upping the ante,” he breathes, watching the gun, and she means business because she holds it like she’s supposed to, this is no hysterical assault from a woman who’s lost everything. “Interesting. I _like_ it.”

A smile, and she strides forward, jamming the gun under his chin and cocking the hammer with a lovely _click_ that he unconsciously echoes with his teeth.

“And later,” she continues, “later it occurred to me that the best way to get back at you isn’t by throwing you in Arkham, or hating you from afar, or getting Bruce to bribe your nurses to inject you with all sorts of drugs you shouldn’t have been getting – not that he knows that’s what I used the money for. He doesn’t know about it.”

Joker starts to laugh, because after all, those drugs she’d intended for him usually went straight into the nurses who gave ‘em to him! It was irony at its finest, it was _hilarious_.

“So, shweetheart,” he drawls at her, still leering, still laughing, “what’s the best way to get back at me?”

“Take away the thing you love the most,” she whispers, suddenly scarily serene. “Your control.”

“What – ” he begins, but stops because how’s he supposed to talk when she’s shoving her face into his like that, or doing – _oh_. That was distracting, all right, that tongue thing, and where were her hands going and why?

“Knew it,” she whispers victoriously, sounding downright evil, “you don’t even know what I’m doing, do you?”

Because all his sexuality is focused on _blood_ and _terror_ and _knivesknivesknives_ , because he’s never been as physically weak as he is now, because the sheer malice in her eyes is almost disturbing, though it’s definitely enthralling. He jerks violently away from her and cracks his head on the wall, and the sharp pain shoots from his skull to his crotch and he cackles at the utter deliciousity of the sensation –

 _Oh_. Oh oh oh, _fuck_ , what was she doing down there? Those fingers – not supposed to go there – _fantastic_ , whatever it is, and his breath is coming in short gasps, she’s pressing into him with her shoulder while both her hands are busy and she’s laughing softly, laughing just like him.

Her hands are rough from the burns like her face rubbing against his (scars on scars) or maybe those are her _teeth_ brittle teeth drawing blood and driving him _crazy_. His eyes are shut and he’s clutching her back in his hands and he’s not sure if he hates her or loves her for doing this to him and _nevernevernever_ has someone other than him done this, slipping her hands over him and _in him_ and rubbing stroking scratching, these tactile sensations are _incredible_ but it’s the _pain_ when she bites him and hits him and the cold of that gun biting into his skin –

He whines when he comes, like a teenage virgin, his knees give out and he hits the floor shaking. Rachel is standing over him like a killer from a horror movie (or maybe the corpse), his spend on her expensive trousers, and she uses her foot to roll him on his back. She’s laughing at him. _Mocking_ him, he hates her for that, suddenly and ferociously, and when she kneels he lunges up at her and _rips_ her lower lip in half with his teeth, blood splattering her face. She only hits him to the side, easily with her fist, and he lands on his elbows with a jarring impact.

“Bitch,” he whispers, and he means it completely.

“Out of all the pain I’ve had,” she tells him, words garbled and her face is positively pouring blood, “do you really think this measures up to it?” Her revolver fits neatly into a holster under her fitted jacket. That’s where she hid it. _Bitch_.

She kicks him in the side once for good measure, then goes and taps on the door, a code most likely, and when it’s opened there are short screams from nurses and she’s rushed off, rushed off to a place where they’ll stitch her up and send her home and pray she won’t sic her lawyers on them. She won’t, though, it’s not like the wound is going to ruin her fucking face, is it?

Later, when Quinzel comes in, he puts his plan in motion, the one plan he’s made in probably decades, and he can tell from the way she leans ever so slightly toward him (even while she’s injecting him with more more more sedatives!) that it’s working. Too bad he only has one goal, really, and it doesn’t involve making love on a pile of jewels the way Quinzel wants it to.

He will kill Rachel Dawes. One way or another. He will kill her, and then _maybe_ , just maybe, he’ll meet Batsy again.


End file.
